


sing me a song, my syren

by CobaltCephalopod



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Drowning, M/M, syren!jaskier au, syrens
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-02
Updated: 2020-02-02
Packaged: 2021-02-27 20:13:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,800
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22521559
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CobaltCephalopod/pseuds/CobaltCephalopod
Summary: Geralt finds his journey to the coast is more than he'd bargained for, including chatty syrens and an underwater threat.Inspired by craftgamerzz's beautiful syren!au
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 6
Kudos: 134





	sing me a song, my syren

**Author's Note:**

> This is based on the amazing art by [craftgamerzz](https://craftgamerzz.tumblr.com/post/190475853271/redesigned-the-merjaskier-to-look-more-like-the) because I couldn't get it out of my mind!

The wind skimmed over the waves, throwing sea spray into the night and piercing through the thin dark undershirt with a cold he didn’t particularly feel. From his spot where he stood in the middle of the rowboat, he could see far into the night by the light of the moon glinting on the crests and it showed an empty expanse of sea apart from the town lit up to the left behind him. 

He’d been out here for hours, watching and waiting, with only the occasional splash of a fish breaching the surface for company. It had been a while since he’d been on the coast, this kind of rhythmic pitch and rumble might have even been relaxing, but he never did get called anywhere except on business. What would he do in his spare time anyway, besides sharpen his swords and mend his left-behind armor? 

The cliffs at his back were far enough away that he wouldn’t be dashed against the rocks by a too-tall wave, but he’d found the outcropping Nona had mentioned a little further out. It was mostly submerged by then, barely big enough to step on much less serve as a likely spot for syren sun-bathing. 

Crouching down, Geralt checked his supplies again; the crossbow was still loaded, the grapeshot kept dry and at hand. The only thing missing was the syren. 

“Ohoho, that profile against the moon was just divine,” a voice spoke from over the edge of the boat, startling Geralt into slinging an Aard at the open water. 

—-

“It’s a syren, we all knows it,” the so-called harbormaster of Yusden said, pushing aside moldering nets and old crates. 

“What makes you think that?” Geralt ducked under a strung-up fish with teeth long enough to skewer a steak with and followed him out onto the docks to see the meager numbers of fishermen left after the attacks. There were a dozen boats left, now in the middle of being stowed for the night before first light tomorrow, with sailors hopping between decks to help take down the mainsail of another after finishing their own. 

All of Yusden could be ignored if a traveler closed their eyes for a mere minute on the main road while passing by and yet the amount of coin they had managed to scrape together belied the small but industrious fishing that the town depended on to survive. Their passion for carving out a living at the base of the Soundless Cliffs was matched only by their apparent need to create as many charms against ill luck at sea as possible. Every house was strung with bits of glass, bone, driftwood or broken hooks beyond use, to create a constant backdrop of clinking in every inch of the town. 

With the cliffs stretching overhead, Yusden was plunged into shadow by mid-afternoon, leaving the line of remaining light on the water to retreat farther and farther out until it met the approaching night like a long-lost lover returned from a storm. Even now, the harbor were mired in twilight and the water turned an ashen grey. 

“Heard it singing out on the cliffs,” the harbormaster spat on the planks, a sour expression contorting his face, “enjoying itself before it eats our men and comes to drag another to his death.”

“Anyone seen it?” Geralt shifted his weight on the dock as he felt the wood giving way beneath his foot, beginning to question just how much of his expected pay might be better used for making sure the town didn’t dissolve into the ocean instead. A sailor could die in their own boat’s slip if they got unlucky enough. A syren might be the least of their worries. 

“None of them that gets taken, seeing as their dead an’ all.” The harbormaster gestured to a sailor tying the boat’s halyard into place, before calling, “Nona, c’mere, you still have it with you?”

Nona finished cleating the line and wiped her hands on her pants before ducking below-deck, her copper-wet hair the only thing visible while she pulled out what she was looking for. 

When she straightened up, Geralt was surprised to see she wasn’t holding a harpoon as he’d expected, but rather a worse-for-wear lute. Its strings were snapped, hanging from the neck in large curls, and beads of water dripped off the base. 

“Got it last night. Saw it over around the cove by the base of the Arch, the thing was up out of the water, wings out and everything. I had my net on me, about the only thing I had, and I got close enough to see the teeth when it turned on me and snarled.” 

Nona shuddered, holding out the lute like she was wont to just chuck it into the bay. But she continued. 

“Teeth like one of those lizard-fish from down deep—” She glanced out along the cliffs, shoulders straightening at the memory. “It took Piri last week, I can show you where it was. Help you kill it.” 

“Just directions are fine,” Geralt said, trying to remember the last time someone had offered to help him on a job. Most villagers were driven by fear, but even with an offer of aid he knew it would just end up another death on his hands. 

“Give it hell for me then.” 

—-

“Was that an attack or are you just happy to see me?” The voice came again from the other side of the boat, moving behind Geralt even as it kept talking. “The silver hair, the rugged looks… You wouldn’t happen to be a witcher, would you?”

A face popped up at the bow of the rowboat, water-slick arms crossed over the prow while the owner shook his hair like Roach when coming in out of the rain. Where the moonlight fell on his shoulders scales rippled and reflected with every movement; on his neck a ridged set of gills glistened, opening and closing as he talked though he showed no sign of needing them at the moment. His eyes were blue, glowing like his scales, fixed on him with an interest that was usually reserved for flowers at the roadside or a pretty brooch. 

“A man of few words, I get it,” the syren, for there was no doubt that’s what he was as he shifted in his spot hanging off the front of Geralt’s boat as if he was at a bar in Cintra, smiled, teeth flashing bright but as normal-looking as they came, “I would serenade you but I’ve lost my accompaniment for tonight, of all nights it’s the greatest shame.” 

“Does this work?” Geralt grunted out, once he could get a word in. He stayed crouched in the bottom of the boat, hand on the crossbow. All that was left was to aim it. 

“Does what work? That?” The syren flicked a finger at the crossbow with a hand that looked like it had been dipped in ink. “You tell me, my witcher, aren’t you the weapons expert?” 

“Is this what works for killing townsfolk?” The sight of the sharp clawed hands only served as a reminder that despite the odd friendliness, he was still a syren. 

“What?” The syren stared at him with a quizzical tilt to his head, tousled wet hair dripping into his wide eyes. “Those guys? They have no appreciation for my music, what do you mean? Do you want to hear? I can show you what they’re missing out on, if you know what I mean.”

Geralt leaned back as the syren hoisted himself further up onto the rowboat, tilting the entire vessel with his weight. With the rest of his torso came his two wings, membranes spread thin between the spokes and affording a wingspan wide enough to engulf the entire boat. Water sloshed into the craft as it rocked, splashing Geralt until his shirt was clinging to him like a wet rag—which he found had the syren eyeing him eagerly. 

Why wasn’t it taking to the air? Syrens usually attacked by swooping down and taking their victims unawares; the advantage created by being a sea creature suddenly able to fly was what had given them their fearsome reputation. Knuckles tight as he held himself still in the still bucking boat, Geralt tried to return to his previous line of accusation.

“Someone’s been drowning them. They’ve heard your singing—”

“What did they say? Is it just my lute they have a problem with? Poor taste, that. But I don’t mind reviews. Provided they have such a fine delivery system every time,” the syren said, settling down again and propping his chin on his blackened hands. 

“They were more concerned with their lost friends and family,” Geralt ground out, finding himself conversationally floundering. He didn’t find much to say to most people, it was always business of one kind or another, and this syren had managed to derail the topic every time. 

“I haven’t touched a hair of their heads. Maybe put a few fingers on their boats, they get too close sometimes and I can’t have them where I… Anyway, if it’s a clash of moods I can arrange a few mournful dirges instead. I have less of a broad repertoire for those, but if I could get my damn lute back—”

“You say you haven’t killed them,” Geralt interrupted, realizing by this point that the syren wouldn’t return to the point at hand unless he hauled it there by his tail, “Then who?”

“I’m not a warden of these waters. I’ll take a bite out of them if they throw their stupid nets over my home, but I don’t make a habit of drowning humans. They’re a touch too sour.” The syren leaned forward, the spines along his back rising. “I wouldn’t mind a taste of you though. I can be gentle.” 

Geralt didn’t see the hungry gaze on him, mind caught on finding another cause for the drownings, if he could even believe the syren in front of him. For whatever reason, his instincts were telling him that it really wasn’t the boisterous possible culprit in front of him, whose tail was playfully slapping against the oncoming waves to mist him with the backsplash. 

His thoughts were interrupted when the boat jumped underneath him, knocking him off balance and the syren clear from the boat entirely, though not without a squawk of protest. As he tried to find his footing again, cursing his lapse in caution and for believing the foolish act the syren had put on, the bottom of the boat splintered apart and he fell into the water, head striking a jagged spike of wood and plunging him into darkness. 

AN: I do plan on writing more soon, I've got most of a plot figured out so

**Author's Note:**

> I'm also on [tumblr](https://squidpro-quo.tumblr.com/) if you want to come chat about the Witcher!


End file.
